Second Chances
by RainyDaysAndBlueJays
Summary: A short drabble about what Jackson might have been thinking in the events leading up to the end of the championship game. Spoilers for 2x10 and 2x11. Oneshot.


**Second Chances**

**(Just a short drabble fic about what Jackson might have been thinking before he stabbed himself in episode 2x11. Enjoy.)**

He had known what was going to happen.

Hiding behind the large oak tree, he'd watched as Gerard Argent held Matt under the water. He saw the bubble rise to the surface, calculated the struggles of the troubled boy as he fought to live like he'd never fought before. There was some sort of sick satisfaction that ran through him as he watched Matt sink towards the bottom of the lake. He didn't really understand what was happening at the time, still being stuck in Kanima form, but he had seen the strange beauty in the thrashing of his arms, the light fading from his eyes as he descended slowly into a grave of his own making.

Jackson knew the moment Matt died. He heard the steady thump of his heart and the last things he thought. And then, once it had finally happened, there was silence. Silence. Something that he'd not heard or felt in so long. It wrapped around him, covering him, smothering him. It was like his own private oblivion. He felt himself slipping away. All the jumbled thoughts and emotions and feelings of a sick, sick boy left and he was just hollow; just Jackson Whittemore in someone else's skin.

But the Gerald came.

He didn't really understand the older Argent. He couldn't calculate the way that the man looked at him. He couldn't discern the strange emotion in his eyes. Then he felt it. _No_, he cried out to himself. _Not again_. He couldn't give in to the tugging that gripped at his heart; the string that had appeared and was pulling him forward. He was finally free. He could finally escape.

Gerard lifted a wrinkled and well-worn hand. It was steady in the air. Against his own accord, Jackson lifted his as well. He tried to fight. He tried to think about someone, anything to give him a grip on his humanity. Faces flittered behind his eyelids. There were his parents, his adoptive ones; Scott, who he remembered defending him as he sat chained in a stolen police transport van; Derek, who'd fed him his own poison and yet still lost; Allison, she was still his friend, right?; and Lydia. She was the one who lingered the longest. Her bright green eyes framed by thick lashes and pretty red hair. He thought about her voice, her laugh, and her lips as they moved against his.

Yet there was nothing he could do. His green palm pressed against Gerard's fleshy, pink one, and the connection was made.

Being connected to someone was like being that person. Every thought, hope, dream, and memory belonged to you as much as it did then. Even as he slept in the next morning, as a human, he knew what had happened. And there seemed to be nothing he could do. He stayed in his room, refusing to leave. He knew what would happen. He knew what had been planned. And yet when his parents told him to get ready for the game, what else could he have done but go?

And now, as he stood on the side-lines, the grass squishy beneath his cleats, he knew what was going to happen. _The field will run with blood_. It wasn't his thought, but Gerard's. He listened and watched the expressions on Scott's face. He saw Isaac's plan. He saw it all because Gerard saw it. As he ran down the field, as he chased the ball and pushed back the other team, her felt a sickness swell inside of him.

He let his eyes scour the bleachers. It was packed with people out to see the championship game. He saw Danny's parents in the far back, calling out loudly for their son. Scott's mom looked out hopefully as she pushed on a son that she didn't even know anymore. Mr. Stilinski was smiling and, with heightened senses, Jackson observed a tear in his eye. He was excited, happy. He stood loudly, yelling for Stiles even as he missed shot after shot. Lydia was with them, gripping Mrs. McCall's arm tightly, smiling bright. It had been a while since he'd seen her so carefree.

There were more people, too. Children ran around, parents and teachers for both teams called out and hollered and whistled. People, innocent people who had taken time out of their day to come and watch a bunch of teens tear up a field for some silly game. And Gerald wanted to kill them all. He didn't care who got in his way. Innocence meant nothing to a blood-thirsty werewolf hunter.

_He's confused_, Jackson thought. _He's deluded._ _There's a line between killing for justice and killing for revenge and he's crossed it. He'll kill them all._

Bloody thoughts swam through his mind. He clutched his head, looking around. He saw Scott stand and make his way onto the field. The co-captain was glaring at him, sympathy and acknowledgement flashed between his eyes. He knew what was going to happen, too. And, even though he knew he'd fail, he was still going to try.

And at that moment, Jackson knew. He'd spent his whole two years of high school trying to be the best at everything, the most popular, and the smartest test taker. He'd thought that, if he could do it all, there was no way he'd be ignored. They'd see him and known him and, once he'd graduated, they'd remember him, too. It didn't matter how. As long as he was there, he'd made his mark, he'd fulfilled his purpose. He'd deluded himself into thinking that he was the hero of Beacon Hills High School.

But, he realized, that wasn't what a hero was.

A hero was Mrs. McCall, who'd come out to support her son even though she'd been threatened by Gerard. A hero was Mr. Stilinski, who had faced down the whole police force just to defend Stiles when he'd told him that Matt was a killer. He had taken his pink slip and still investigated and even when he should have been angry, he'd trusted his son. Isaac was a hero. He'd fought against his abusive father and come out a champion when no one thought he'd could. He'd left behind the only friends he had because he thought that they were doing the wrong thing with their abilities as Werewolves.

And then there was Scott. Rising against a world he hardly understood and giving up his own humanity to help those around him. He had held out for Jackson even when no one else did. He had fought tooth and nail not to have him killed and had only wanted the best for him even though all Jackson had ever done was push him around. He was a real hero. Those were real heroes. And he'd been sadly mistaken when he thought that he'd come out on top.

Maybe he was still popular and maybe he was still a jerk. Maybe he would always be selfish and childish and insecure. Maybe he would always look down on those below him and give up on himself too easily. But that didn't mean he couldn't still be a hero.

And that was when he knew. The bell announcing the end of the game sounded, followed by a mass of cheers from the Beacon Hills audience. They'd done it. But they hadn't won. Not if Gerald got his way. People jumped up and down, shouting in happiness and waving signs praising the players. Gerard stood up in the corner.

There was only one thing left to do. No one controlled Jackson Whittemore. No one could make him do something he didn't want to do. Gerard wasn't in charge of him. He was in charge of himself. It wasn't hard to extend his claws. It wasn't hard to stab himself in the chest. It wasn't hard to do nothing as he fell to the wet grass. It wasn't even hard to close his eyes as the numbness took over. What was hard was hearing Lydia call his name and not being able to answer.

But it didn't matter. He heard Gerard's roar of rage in his mind and knew that he'd succeeded. This was it.

This was his second chance.


End file.
